Only a Hufflepuff
by Isis1
Summary: An over weight girl - with stolid, dirty blonde hair. Features a plebeian Marcus Flint and a fastidious Oliver Wood.
1. Default Chapter

She rolled over onto her back - face contorted with   
an un-readable expression - groaned and the subaqueous rhythm   
of breathing continued. Minutes later she switched to her   
right side, habit pending, grabbed her miss matched comforter,   
pulling it tightly to her chest. It was then that a pliant   
smile touched her face. Finally, a more restful sleep befell   
upon her.   
  
An alarm clock cut through the silence as a skean   
would do with alumina. She attempted to slam her fist onto   
the snooze button - missing - tumbled from the bed, but not   
before hitting her eye on the odd shaped oak table.   
  
"Oww! Son-of-a..."  
  
"Time to get up, Peony!" called her Mother's discordant voice.   
  
Peony Eanthers mouthed, mockingly, 'Time to get up."   
Pushing herself, resembling a push-up, she stumbled a bit -   
making her way toward the screed bathroom.   
  
"You don't want to miss the Express,"   
  
She rubbed, then held her eye as she swept  
through the doorway. Peony peered into the mirror at her   
reflection - but it wasn't her flat, lifeless, dirty blonde   
hair she cursed or even her round-pudgy face. It was the   
ever swelling of the flesh around her orb that had just been   
so rudely rubbed into an oak table.. She tentatively touched   
the plume skin that was extremely tender. Peony hissed at her   
own actions - it was slightly painful to even blink.   
  
She stood meters back from Platform 9 3/4 with her   
gangly Mother. Peony was batting at her Mother's hands, which   
were trying to wipe her face with a lacey handkerchief. Her   
Mother was a terrible clean-freak and thought that even a   
speck of dirt on her face was a disgrace.   
  
"Mom - not in front of everybody,"   
  
She stopped and hugged Peony - quickly backing away   
to straighten her own blouse and skirt. Peony struggled in   
her robes - they were much too large for her and felt rather   
itchy at the moment.   
  
"Have good year. Did you foget your - your - that stick   
contraption?"   
  
She shook her head at her own parent's description   
of such an important instrument to the wizardring world.   
Peony took a deep breath and reminded herself that her mom   
was only a Muggle and could not be expected to know everything.   
  
"A wand, Mother - a wand," Peony bit off.   
  
"Yes - yes, of course, a wand, dear. Well, I'm off,"  
  
But, her Mother stopped her walking away and turned   
back to her daughter.   
  
"You know, sweetheart - you might think of loosing a little   
weight while you're at school. That uniform is terribly   
un-flattering"   
  
Her Mother jogged off back toward her car and left   
Peony standing alone - looking forlorn. She sighed and took   
hold of her cart - in a slow trot she passed through the   
barrier. Instantly, she saw groups of students socializing.   
Peony smiled, briefly - she was almost there - she was more   
content at Hogwarts than anywhere.   
  
The smile disappeared as a body rammed into her.   
She lurched down onto her knees and yelped in pain. Footsteps   
passed her - she looked from her ungraceful looking position   
and saw three of many people who she loathed, and they never   
failed to make her life an inferno hell. Marcus Flint, Adrian   
Pucey, and Sean Derrick.   
  
"Watch it, Hufflepuff," sneered Flint, over his shoulder.   
  
The other two laughed as Peony started to gather   
some books knocked over onto the ground.   
  
"Sorry," she mumbled, "I was taking in Oxygen here."   
  
Flint stopped, abruptly - turned - walked toward   
her, scowling. He stopped in front of her and kicked a   
book she had just grasped - it slid to the train and   
haulted as it neared the track. Peony kept her eyes   
to the floor - she forced herself to ignore his presence -   
impossible.   
  
"You're taking in too much air, girl,"   
  
Flint bent down and picked up her cage that held   
her light brown owl. He hooted in protest and flapped his wings.   
  
"What's this?" Flint asked as his friends made their   
re-appearance at his side, "Pathetic little runt, wouldn't   
you say boys?"   
  
Pucey took the cage from him and started to ripple   
it. Peony rushed to her feet to save her owl, but Flint   
pushed her back - grabbing both of her arms and twisting   
them, painfully behind her back. She struggled - he was   
too strong. She was forced to watch Vlad tremble with   
dementia ephialtes.   
  
Suddenly, Pucey stopped his torture and eyed the   
owl, detestedly. Vlad calmed - looked defunct.   
  
"You know," drawled Derrick, "you would think a fat-ass   
like her would be able to put her weight into getting away from you."   
  
Peony winced at the comment at her size and   
discontinued her struggling. She went limp and wanted   
nothing more than to sink to her knees - tears that she   
attempted to hold back slipped from her eyes and fled   
forth onto her robes.   
  
"Oh - look - a cry baby, too," Pucey added.   
  
Flint leaned down - his lips pressed firmly onto   
her ear. She hated the touch - she hated his respiration -   
she loathed them all.   
  
"Don't cry," he breathed, seductively - sending an acrimonious   
chill throughout her entire body, "yet - we haven't done   
anything tear-worthy - but we will."   
  
Pucey grasped the handle on the cage, securely,  
while Derrick held it. He opened the door, which tricely   
sent Vlad into and even clangorous fit of wailing and   
pertubation than before.   
  
In a burst of surprise, Flint's tenacity was lost   
and Peony was pushed forward - Pucey and Derrick simultaneously   
dashed forward, knocking her out of the way. She turned and   
gawked at the scene that lay before her. Flint was on the   
ground, rubbing his mouth. And, very much to her surprise   
and delight - Oliver Wood stood, looking menacingly, over Flint.   
  
Pucey and Derrick pulled Flint up and they scurried   
away - not before, each running their shoulders into Peony   
as they passed her. She frowned and sighed. As she kneeled   
to pick up the rest of her books and ownings - Oliver bent   
down and assisted her in placing them back on the cart.   
Peony stood - a blush rising to her cheeks.   
  
She studied him as he walked to retrieve the book   
that Flint had so casually punced from her hands. Peony   
had long watched the Seventh year, Quidditch Captain, from   
afar. And, that was as close as she enjoyed to come near   
him - she devoted most of her time to studying, and even   
then, most classes were barely passed. Peony had never   
spoken to him - only snuck few glances from the Hufflepuff   
table and brushed against him in hallways. Once - though   
she believed that he had no recollection of the quick   
event - he had stopped to pick up her books she had   
lubberly dropped.   
  
"Here,"   
  
Peony shook her head - breaking from the reverie.   
Oliver seemed perplexed, but a bemused smiled tugged at   
the corners of his mouth. She timidly took the the book   
from his hands, looking down - always down.   
  
"Thanks," she mumbled.   
  
Oliver leaned down - he didn't really recognize   
the girl - but something vaguely familiar besmeared over   
his mind. He eyes lingered on the bruise around her eye.   
  
"Did they do that?" he blurted out.   
  
Peony glanced up, quickly - she thought he would   
be a bit more intelligent than that. But, the look of   
concern - whether it was mock or not - she didn't really   
care - made her feel just a bit debile.   
  
"Oh," he recoiled, "a bruise wouldn't form that fast."   
  
She regretted the thought before - he did hold some   
concept of wisdom. Peony could almost kick herself for   
having common mis-conceptions of others - though sometimes -   
she was correct. She turned her back on him and began to   
push the cart to be loaded on the train. Oliver merely   
looked on, but then rushed to catch up with her.   
  
"I can help you - you know, push it for you,"   
  
"No,"   
  
Peony walked on, leaving Oliver once more looking   
ambiguitous. He had to know where he had seen her before   
- his brain would not let him rest until he knew. He went   
forth beside her once more, grabbing the cart, forcing her   
to cease in brisk walk.   
  
"Then, tell me where I've seen you before,"   
  
She sighed, frustratively - looking up to his   
face again - another blush incited from her. Peony with   
upturned eyes - why would he choose this moment to take an   
interest of her existence. She knew she was being curt -   
but she didn't need the hurt - didn't need the rejection -   
not now. She pried his attenuated fingers from the cart.   
  
"We..."   
  
Peony saw a Ravenclaw girl sneak her way up   
behind Oliver. She clasped her hands over her eyes -   
whispering loudly in his ear.   
  
"Guess who?"   
  
Oliver gently, pulled her hands off his face   
and turned. He offered a grin, to which she giggled   
at. Peony deviated ebony in the expression - backed   
away, languorly, to not draw attention to herself.   
It did not help - the Ravenclaw beauty raised an eyebrow   
in her direction - loosing all interest in Oliver, for   
the moment.   
  
"What are you doing with - her?"   
  
Peony looked down - though a strange thought   
entered her contemplation. Today - she had recieved   
a black eye from her table, a disrelishable encounter   
with mauvis gout like Slytherins, but maybe - just   
maybe, this could incident that was about to take   
place could make her house proud.   
  
"Well..." Oliver started.   
  
Peony interrupted him sharply with a tight sarcasm.   
  
"I tripped him,"   
  
Both, Oliver and the girl stared at her - that was   
most deffinately not what they were expecting.   
  
"An accident, of course. But, you know - us Hufflepuffs,   
being clumsy and all,"   
  
Nothing was said - it couldn't be - Peony had dashed   
off to have her things loaded. She had said something -   
something that a scurrying scared Hufflepuff wouldn't ordinarily   
utter. She wasn't proud with herself - in fact she felt guilty   
at being so rude to the girl - Oliver.   
  
Peony sighed as she sat down in a seat on the train -   
window seat - to see the scenery, though she had beheld four   
times, this would be the fifth. She saw Oliver wave good-bye   
to the fair Ravenclaw and climb aboard. The chance to even   
inhale his self existence would be - unprecedented - a chance   
to be known as his would not be able to be cogitated. 'After   
all," she lamented, 'I'm only a Hufflepuff." 


	2. Chapter 2

She lowered herself in her seat - maybe no one would   
notice her if she were shorter - while poking at what was left   
of the morsels on her plate. Her eyes swept over the first years   
at her table - then to the other three tables. There were more this   
year, she resolved - always more boys - always. Peony sighed - that   
was the treme thing she needed, more people casting insults on her.   
  
A nudge from Peony's right side made her lift her head   
and look extremely disconcerted. She turned her head - facing   
her friend and only other Fifth year Hufflepuff - Karen Thoree.   
  
"Something is deffinately lingering in the Twilight Zone,"   
  
Peony tilted her head at her description. Karen's eyes   
narrowed into slits as they always did when there was something   
engaging going on.   
  
"Don't look - but a certain Quidditch captain has been staring   
at you for quite a while,"   
  
Peony, almost imediately, looked over at the Slytherin   
table. It was her first thought - vengeance - wasn't that what   
Flint was all about? But, when she saw the capacious figure -   
he was ingrossed with what his friends had to say. Then, it   
dawned on her - Oliver. Her eyes darted to his table - he was   
there - yes - and he was gazing directly at her. The common   
bemused look he wore almost daily presented itself on his features   
again.   
  
She glanced down at the table and feigned interest in   
the chattering surrounding her. Peony counted the minutes -   
ten - she had not glanced up at anyone. He would be involved   
with something else - someone else - right? She looked at Karen,   
she was drooling over one of the Weasley twins. Peony raised her   
head - he was chatting with the taller one - good - his focus was   
off of her. He did it, then - he looked at her again -   
a half-grin - then back to talking.   
  
  
Peony kept close as she could to Karen and some of the other   
Hufflepuffs. A disturbing unease veiled down upon her body - something -   
something inevitably wrong was going to occur. She sped up as she noticed   
that the others were farther ahead. As if, concluding with her   
premonitions - a hand closed on her mouth, with one scabrously   
around her waist.   
  
It wasn't as if she didn't try to fight back - she did -   
but even biting the calloused palm didn't help. She craned her   
head to see the force that held her so - a muffled whimper-scream   
tumbled from her throat. Down - down - down the stairs. Peony was   
dizzy from being drug downward - most times the slightest movements  
made her ill.   
  
Finally, she was thrown back against a picture - a snake   
charmer. The portrait mumbled something about a password, with   
Flint's growling of 'shove it," it was quieted. Her head swam -   
stone - so hard - Flint was blurred - image - devilish grin.   
  
Peony propelled herself forward - only to be shoved back,   
is body holding her tightly in place. She shoved against his chest   
with her hands - no avail - she was still pinned. His lips once   
again found her ear and the breath - the firery breath, she loathed.   
  
"You think fucking with your pet was evil - tear-worthy?"   
  
That was the second time she heard him use the term -   
tear-worthy. Her eyes were closed - tight - maybe if she held   
them shut long enough - he would disappear. No - no - that was   
a thought worthy of a simplton - it was real - he was real.   
Flint, slowly, moved his head to rest his forehead to hers.   
Eyes - his eyes - umber - perverse - too dangerous.   
  
Peony heard the rustling of his robe as he moved his   
knee between her legs. He took his wand from the inner   
flowings of his robe and he jabbed it to her ribs - a warning -   
a promise. Her wand - Peony's - where was her wand? She gasped   
as she felt his other hand roam - reaction - she began to struggle   
again. She opened her mouth to scream - wouldn't someone hear -   
wouldn't someone care - does anyone care? Flint cut her off -   
his offensive mouth on hers.   
  
Suddenly - but Peony saw it in slow motion. It was   
Oliver - he had yanked Flint off of her and threw him against   
the wall. She sunk to her knees - relishing in the feel of   
cold stone - cold - familiar - beautiful. She didn't watch   
what Oliver did after, because most of it, it registered as   
blocking - tomorrow she would remember nothing - she made a   
promise not to remember it - shame.   
  
Finally - she saw light - candles along the wall.   
She was being led somewhere - where? Peony looked around -   
up some stairs - her common room wasn't up stairs. Not   
bothering to gaze at who had a protective arm around her   
shoulders, she pushed him off. Instinct - her natural   
instinct to fight back - to stay breathing - kicked in.   
She started to slap at the person, tears streaming down   
her face, blurring her vision - even if she wanted to see   
who she was so viciously attacking - she wouldn't be able to.   
  
"Peony! Peony, stop - it's me,"   
  
Oliver was blocking most of her slaps and puches -   
but she had caught him off guard with the first swing. He   
grabbed one wrist, then the other - trying to be gentle -   
clearly she was in some sort of shock. Peony was struggling   
as Oliver pulled her to him. Comfort - that was what he   
thought she needed - to be held for the moment. He shook   
her - too violently - she became nauseous - dizzy.   
  
Peony slid to her knees, once more - he glided   
down with her and offered his body as support.   
  
"Oliver..."   
  
She had never heard her voice so soft - so   
timid - breaking. Oliver sat on the stairs - half-way   
to his house's common room - embracing her. Peony was   
vaguely aware of the soothing words that he whispering -   
stroking her hair - with his consoling, came more tears.   
Though he meant well - it only reminded her of how pathetic   
she was - she couldn't even defend herself properly. 


	3. Chapter 3

She heard mumbling - soft - timid - whoever did not want   
to wake her. Peony told herself to open her eyes, but she   
didn't - a melodious slumber was lingering on her - she   
simply didn't want to awake. There was a luminous grey   
light that shone through a window, it framed her upper   
torso - clad in a white sheet and bed-spread. Just as   
slumber was drifting near, she felt a warm hand intertwine   
their fingers with hers. It was then when she felt the   
caloric radiate off of the skin - grain - as if something had been...  
  
"Oliver?"  
  
The sound of her cracking voice once more   
frightened her - Peony intermittently uttered words,   
but when she spoke her voice was clear. Now, that was   
to never be. She knew she had been the essence of serene   
calamity - she was sustained, silent, but her diligent   
effort at what all she set her eye to was incessant.   
The hand tightened, suppely - tentatively - he did not   
wish to hurt - more than she had been.   
  
"I'm here," Oliver whispered, wearisomely.   
  
Finally, for hours she had slept in dreamless slumber -   
filled with ebony thourned vines and callouses of onyx gemstones.   
Peony marveled, not for the first time, at Oliver Wood's orbs. They   
were simple - filled with a complex dilirium that she felt that his   
stare would freeze her staple. She glanced around, with a rapid   
tantivy - and her eyes were forced to gaze into his.   
  
"I'm in your room,"   
  
It was a statement - from the decour, it was   
difficultly simple to disect that a male opperated the   
domain, but there were the few personal touches that gave   
the room a spark - these could only give the ratification   
that it was his room. The lop-sided grin reappeared on his   
youthful face - a flutter of her velvet blood pot, and a shiver.   
So much attention - from someone who she had more than admired -   
was dizzy inducing.   
  
"I know - I know I should have brought you to the. . ."  
  
"No - no," Peony interrupted, "I'm glad you brought me here."   
  
Oliver glanced down - and, what could be almost   
be detected, but could have been assumed from the fire -   
a blush of rouge. This only served to un-chain the transluscent   
gates of embarassment to tumble off of Peony. She in turn   
found the nearest wall very intriguing at the moment.   
  
"Peony - I think we should tell the Headmaster,"   
  
The mere cogitation of speaking the words to   
Dumbledore was - was unthinkable. Peony could outline   
the domineering figures that would listen complacently   
to her tale of the dark shadowed man, with a grin of   
Lucifer and the heart of Hades. They would laugh -   
chuckle delightfully at such fictional recollection.   
After all, she was merely an ordinary appearing girl -   
over weight, who barely spoke to a soul. Peony's head   
perked up in conformed lunatic manner - with a pyro of   
suns looming within her eyes, she spoke one word. A   
word that would end the conversation - a single thought   
would no longer linger on the subject.   
  
"Never,"   
  
The insanely demented glare was fleeting - the olde   
cowering orbs returned - the self consciosness would forever   
an eternity exist. Oliver lightly stroked his thumb across   
her hand. He had never felt skin as hers - not soft - no   
never soft - not completely rough - different. Indeed,   
this was the reason - held from, whether, his knowledge   
or recognition - it did not matter. Peony, different -   
an oddity - a shadowed maiden that would always carry a   
despairing look - hollowed into the very depths of lips   
would be the wail of woeful esclandre.   
  
It was after the few moments of gentle consoling,   
without the supervacaneous use of vocal chords, of his fingers,   
that Peony knew of his close presence. In all her life - a boy -   
a man - had never bestowed affection onto her. Now, shivers - fear   
- anxiety - sorrow - this could be found in the depths of a more than  
harrowed soul. It is true that eyes can discourse more than ridges   
can ever pass - an undeniable fact, that all - even the most wretched   
lonesome creatures need a word uttered now and again.   
  
"Okay," less than a whisper from Oliver.   
  
Peony, then, smiled - a true vision of contentment.   
The blocking of the incident was touched softly, for she still   
recalled images of the deranged smirking man. Truly, he was   
vision that would haunt her nightmares forever. But, dreams -   
dreams were left for her valourous Oliver to parade in. So,   
when thoughts did not dwell on unsightly details, contentment   
would be the best way to describe what she felt.   
  
She closed her eyes - sleep - dreamless slumber   
of beds of parchment was what she needed. So soft - gentle -   
how could such a person exist with a lithesome touch exist?   
When all, from creation, thinking that beings cared nothing   
more for themselves and what they can knave their way to   
unloyaly recieve objects - how can this person give her   
something that even her own Mother had never given her.   
Fervour - a ruby passion for doing the right thing. Not   
because something could be gained from it - simply because   
it was the right thing to do.   
  
An uncomplicated brush of the lips and a brief   
glancing of rapture in Oliver's eyes and it was over.   
How surprised - almost swooning - but he needed not to   
give her such a gift of fancy. In truth, all that would   
be needed to give Peony a sense of calmness was the lulling   
of his voice. Drifting - succumbing to the skeleton fingers   
of sleep - the most enchanting experience - to slumber.   
Perhaps to meet her gallant Oliver, for she suspected that   
fate toyed with all, just some more than others - it would   
end soon to swiftly.   
  
  
  
  
AUTHOUR'S NOTE:  
If any word that is not understood, not found in English dictionary,   
refer to French or Latin dictionary. 


	4. Chapter 4

It was the same as it had been for the years past - Peony   
entered the first class of the day, late, as she was accustomed to   
being on the first day back. And, alone - no one, not even her   
closest and treasured friend accompanied her. There was only one   
difference in this morning, this stormy day (her favourite kind of   
day.) Oliver had saved her seat and as soon as she had rushed   
through the door, he had waved her down. Most - sitting, mouth   
ajar - so surprised that a 'popular' person would even give a   
second glance at the misfit Peony.   
  
Peony herself was surprised. She had been so sure when she   
fell asleep in Oliver's bed last night, that it would be last time   
she ever touched anything that had been so close to him, as well as   
speak to him again. She believed that with her final awakening that   
morning, with him gone and the room looking desolate and lost without   
his radiant glow illuminating the room, it would be the last time he   
would ever cast a word toward her.   
  
For a moment, she lingered by the door; her mouth as well was   
open. But, when she did begin to move again, all went in a motion   
slower than a snail. She casually caught glimpses of students on   
either side of her, but all the way her mindset stayed on him. He   
had the inferno of a lop-sided grin on his face; clearly he was amused   
at her astonishment. And, by now her entire face was a flame.   
  
As she slid into the seat, Peony could feel warmth radiating   
from Oliver's body. She glanced nervously at him - he caught her eye   
and offered a beam. She gasped softly and looked forward, attempting   
follow instruction. Another boring lecture echoed through the room.   
Slowly, though she tried firmly to hold off the waves of drowsiness…   
Then, so quickly - a jab in her ribs that made her yelp in surprise.   
  
"Huh? What?"   
  
Giggles from the glass and a menacing glare from the professor   
were issued in her direction. A stray piece of parchment was pushed   
toward her with her name written on it. She casually opened it - she   
stifled giggles. Hung upside down from a tree, was Marcus Flint, being   
beaten with a spikey stick. Peony smiled brightly and wondered if the   
paper could act as a voodoo doll. She picked up her own quill and   
sketched an Adrian Pucey whipping Flint. Passing it over to Oliver,   
she allowed herself a glaring glance at a Slytherin that had many a   
time hurt her.   
  
Suddenly, Peony ceased and turned to face forward.   
The movement was so quick it knocked the paper out of Oliver's   
hand and slid away. She did not notice though - she wondered   
how she could be acting so - so - out of character. This was   
her, was it not? She wanted to fight back - to no longer sift   
throught he hallways alone and be frightened. Peony looked over   
at Oliver and her mouth dropped open as she followed his eyes.   
One of the Slytherins had picked up the paper and was sharing it   
with the others.   
  
"Maybe they won't know it was us," she whispered.   
  
Oliver leaned forward and she reveled in the feel of   
him. A scent must drifted off his robes - Peony grinned. He   
leaned down and gently touched his lips to her ear. His breath   
was warm, gentle, and so sensual that a chill ran down her body.   
  
"Um - your name's on it,"   
  
Peony clenched her jaw shut and grinded her teeth for   
a moment. He was right - her name was clearly spelled out on   
the back of it. "Don't turn it over - don't turn it..." The   
pleading thought was not finished. The Slytherin flipped the   
paper over, with a scowl on his face. "Don't be able to read -   
don't be able..." The boy looked up at her, his eyes boring a   
flamed hole in heart. "Crap!" Then, he smiled, knowlingly.   
As Peony saw the boy fold the paper carefully and put it in his   
pocket, she knew Flint would see by the end of the day.   
  
  
  
She did not even bother to go to dinner. Flint would   
be there - the demon with a smile. Peony shivered at the thought   
of his entire existence. Not even Oliver could quell that man's   
wrath. Why was it that Slytherins hated so many. Why was it that   
their abhorrance could not be depleted? And most of all, why was   
it that Flint hated her? She longed to know these answers. From   
her first day of school, she had been treated as an outsider -   
because of her corpulent exterior. Because of being a 'mudblood'   
she was left out of many things. But, then there were those that   
actually did not care for such trivial things as who ones family was.   
  
A knock at the door startled her. Peony clutched her   
heart and felt it beat vivaciously. She timidly threw her   
legs over the side of her bed and stepped onto the floor.   
It was cold, the stone which usually was warm at this time,   
chilled her. The hairs on the back of her neck stuck up in   
apprehension. "Be Karen - be Karen - please be Karen." She   
walked toward the door and cleared her throat.   
  
"Yeah?"   
  
"Peony - it's me, Oliver,"   
  
She breathed a sigh of relief and un-locked the door.   
Peony smiled at Oliver - even the blank expression on his face   
gave her comfort at the moment. Oliver stepped through the door   
and gazed around at the room. He walked with a cat's grace as   
strode about, inspecting objects that caught his fancy. She   
grinned at him - a moronic expression plastered on his face.   
  
"Oliver - um, are you okay?"   
  
He stood up straight and peered around at her.   
Oliver offered smirking smile. Peony tilted her head,   
she had never seen him wear that before. It looked odly   
familiar in a disturbing sense. In her cogitation, Peony   
missed his striding toward her. When her mind did come back   
to the present, she saw him before herself. He was smiling   
calculatingly - thinking - planning...   
  
Oliver grabbed her waist and jerked he forward, swiftly.   
Peony yelped in pain and surprise at his forceful actions. His   
mouth enclosed hers - probing - exploring the caverns. It then   
struck her - the memory of that horrifying night... She pulled   
back and stumbled to her knees.   
  
"Flint?!"   
  
He smirked once more and was upon her. Somewhere amidst   
the tearing of her clothes he had cast a charm to silence her.   
But that did not stop the tears leaking forth from her eyes.   
She loathe him more than ever. With his weight pressing down   
upon her body and the manical gleam in his eyes. Forever, would   
the image of his rampage be carved into her heart and mind. 


	5. Chapter 5

Oliver shook his head at Rachel Rawlings - the Ravenclaw beauty. He could not see how he upset her; they had never   
been dating to begin with. It was now - in a corridor - that she had fallen against the wall, deep waves of sobs bursting   
from her throat. And, Oliver - gentle - sweet, naïve, Oliver attempted to place a hand on her shoulder; she had thrown it  
off, viciously. He hated to see girls cry - especially when he was the reason. He felt extremely uncomfortable - he shifted   
his weight from one foot to the other.   
  
Suddenly, without warning, Rachel ceased to make any noise. She whirled around, her robes making a terrible   
swishing sound to his ears. Swiftly, she wiped the tears from her face with the sleeve of her robes. Then, she slapped him -   
once on his left cheek. His face was moved, with such force, how could one not move? The sound of silken skin against  
rough flesh, echoed throughout the area. Oliver looked down - he did not want to see her.   
  
"We could have been great together! Imagine - they all would have gawked, drooling over you and me! Well, just . . .   
fuck off, Oliver Wood!"   
  
Rachel slammed into him as she left, making known her undying ardour toward abhorrence. Oliver   
heard one final screech of denial, and resentment - then he was left alone. Throughout his years at Hogwarts, he   
realized for the first time, he had broken many hearts - unintentionally. For, on this night, the weight of cruelty weighed   
down upon him. He loathed it - all he wanted was for things to be uncomplicated.   
  
Then, his thoughts turned to Peony Eanthers. He leaned against the wall, sliding down so his knees   
were against his chest. Oliver considered that in this certain position, he looked like a child that had just been   
reprimanded. He briefly wondered why he had not noticed her before. It came to him as a shock: she was ordinary.   
Ordinary - he hated that word. Many times he had heard it to describe himself. So, all he had were a couple pairs of   
clothes; he spent his money on Quidditch oriented objects: he did not want to be merely good - he wanted to be the   
best. Purely, all Oliver needed was a broom - he was happy - until now.   
  
Oliver Wood sighed, heavily. One week ago someone could have asked him, why are you not going with   
anyone? He would have replied - as he had many times before - I guess I just haven't met the right girl. Even those   
words sounded ghastly to him. They were hallowing - vague, and contradicting to what he stood for.   
  
There was a definite attraction that Oliver could not explain. He did not think that Peony was not goode   
enough - he would - could never speak of someone like that. Only, it bothered him that he could have over looked   
such a kind person. While he toiled in the wee hours of the morning, working out strategies, she was bursting with   
trepidation of someone attacking her. And, while Oliver went out almost every weekend to Hogsmeade - with friends -  
Peony stayed in her dorm room - cowering.   
  
It was not fair, he decided. It was not fair that he was treated differently just because he had won a few   
Quidditch games - just because he was pleasant to look upon. Then, he thought - she is the most beautiful person I   
know. It came to him on a whim, for he did not regret it. It was valid, for him - never had he met anyone like Peony -  
he gathered, he never would again.   
  
Like any being, etched with fear - he wanted to hold onto her - this beautiful being. Oliver recalled how   
her hair was unkempt the last time he beheld her. Her eyes were brimming with some unknown emotion that only   
she could possess. He smiled - recalling her countenance eased the dull feeling in his stomach.   
Tears – salt water that is released from the orbs in order to cleanse: crystal shards of lucid glass   
fell down Peony's cheeks. He was standing there – Marcus Flint; a name that drove her wild with terror. So  
calmly did he dress – his pants and shirt, both tailoured made. He sat down beside her, making sure to be as   
offensively close as possible. A sneer pulled back over his entire face; she shook uncontrollably.   
  
He had left the silencing charm on her, for even if he had not, she would not have spoken a   
word – she could not speak. In the silence, before, she was safe – now only the silence brought memories  
of him. So swiftly, Flint struck out his hand – she thought he had hit her. Not pain – was it soft – indeed –  
soft, with calloused hands, he stroked her back.   
  
Peony widened her eyes; she surmised that his beatings and stroking   
felt the same. Frigid with unfeeling ice – dominate as the eye of the heavens.   
He sneered as his hand set off her pallid skin, made of indifference to silk   
and wool. Her skin erupted in goose flesh – her breath rigged. From her back   
and between her legs, blood warmed the bed sheets. Her innocence of purity was   
lost; gone always for an eternity and beyond. And, her neck adourned with whelps   
of teeth marks. Oh, how her back throbbed – he had used his wand to bind her   
to the bed – face down. Her back – once with a pallour that made the moon cry with envy –   
his name, crimson – beaten into her flesh.   
  
"I would have done anything to get you to see me," he began, startling her   
in the shadows, "but you wouldn't even look at me. Only with contempt, did   
you behold me – hatred bourn of rumours. Even before we were sorted into   
houses, you strayed from my path; we all knew – every first year knows – who's   
a Slytherin and who's not."   
  
Her shivering ceased – and just for a moment, she saw understood.   
Marcus Flint would never be seen as just a man – person, at least not to   
anyone else except another Slytherin. He would be seen as a snake – the   
serpent of deception, treachery, and detestation. For, even her state   
of agony; her soul gave out sympathy to the man that had just violated   
her in more ways than one.   
  
As quickly as he had broken through the darkness, he propelled himself   
from the bed and turned on her. Only feet away, her heart pounded furiously –   
she was sure Flint could hear it – she was sure he was enjoying it. But,   
something within her timid demeanour told her to cease being afraid; make   
fear her slave and not the other way around.   
  
Just as he pointed his wand, to brandish yet more memories of agony   
– Peony sat up. In slow motion, Marcus saw her. He had never seen her   
without her eyes downcast and scurrying. Now, at her sudden change in   
posture – in attitude, he found he could not harm her at the moment.   
Peony casually touched her throat, rubbing the terrorized skin. She   
pointed at her vocal cords, and then to his wand.   
  
Cautiously, Marcus whispered the incantation to relieve the charm   
that held her tongue. When it was done, she let loose a fiery breath of a   
sigh. He caught a scent of Eucalyptus-mint. Peony pulled her blankets   
around her, tightly; there was safety to be sought in the warmth of cotton.   
  
"I always thought you hated me, Marcus," the first time she had ever called   
him by his first name, "but I feel sorry for you. After all you've done to   
me – I can forget and move on – it's a pity that you were never taught to   
express love; you were adourned with anger, abhorrence, and misery."   
  
The words scarcely made any sense to the shadowed Slytherin man.   
He sneered and raised his wand once more . . . A knock at the door, silenced   
his intentions. Marcus turned and glared at the door. A low growl from the   
back of his throat flew to Peony's ears.   
  
"Get rid of them!" he growled at Peony.   
  
She sat in defiance – face blank as a spring day's sky. He moved   
to her – Marcus held his wand at her throat. She meant merely to move the   
wand from her throat, but caught him off guard – the wand flew across the   
room and landed by the door. His eyes ablaze – passionate detestation –   
pure, virgin rage, this is what he was bourn to be.   
  
"You get rid of them," she bit off sarcastically.   
  
Then, she was standing. The blankets dripped off of her as water   
would. Marcus was over whelmed with her nakedness. She rushed at him,   
forcing him to back up. Her arm – it was behind her back. She shook,   
violently, calling upon the Gods to strike her down dead if her actions   
were unjust. Her wand came from behind her back – Marcus thought,   
suddenly – it contrasts with her skin. That was the last thought he   
was able to produce at that moment, before pain was upon him . . .   
Oliver stood – unmoving – near indifferent. He heard screams;   
screams that he thought no man should be ever subject to, let alone be   
subject to their audibility. He cringed as a long drawn out screech,   
blew its way over his ears.   
  
Abruptly, his senses of reaction returned. Oliver grabbed the   
doorknob, turning it – twisting – doing everything to the damnable demon   
that refused to budge. His hands became two fist of enraged blood: it   
dripped from his knuckles, staining the back of his hands. Oliver had   
done all that he could, save for blowing the door off its . . .   
  
The door soared to the right – broken – insignificant. What Oliver   
beheld as he stepped through the door, would delay leaving in his mind   
everlastingly. On the floor of elder stone, Peony sat, cradling Marcus   
Flint's head – hair unkempt – a colour that would make ebony cry from envy.   
  
She looked up into his eyes – Oliver's unchanging, youthful orbs;   
there she found herself more troubled than ever in her existence. He fell   
to his knees, crawling around the ever-spilling silver essence that flowed   
through translucent veins of every living – breathing being. He touched her   
shoulder – that only served to set her off.   
  
Peony slapped his hand away; for the first time in his life, Oliver   
cowered – from the look of fright upon her countenance.   
  
"He came from no – no where – I didn't know," she whispered.   
  
Oliver wanted to hold her – comfort her, but she would allow that now.   
She never wanted anyone to touch her. How could she feel anything when   
all that she had ever touched turned to evil? Sudden realization befell   
her – her body more pallid than it had ever been before.   
  
"Oh, Merlin – what have I wrought – what have I wrought?"   
  
"I think you've just killed the devil," Oliver answered.   
  
There was no remorse in his voice – he would never hold repentance.   
Dead and gone, Marcus Flint, in his opinion more than ever now, was better   
to the world lifeless. 


End file.
